


Rough

by amhranstoirme



Category: Naruto
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 08:52:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10738317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amhranstoirme/pseuds/amhranstoirme
Summary: Falling in love is rough, especially with someone like Naruto.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't a true story, I realize, just a collection of short, musing, almost-prose paragraphs. They sort of take place in different time frames, therefore I decided to present them as chapters. From Gaara's POV. Please take this work as a challenge to write some actual Naruto/Gaara//Gaara/Naruto stories. PLEASE.
> 
> PS. I don't own any part of Naruto.

His eyes are rough – they cleave me, sharp blue shards which cut me open. I am laid bare. Exposed. Heart and soul. All of my flaws, my transgressions. My secret hopes. Things I hid, even from myself. My past. My future. Given to his perusal, without quarter. Oddly, I do not feel taken advantage of, threatened, or hurt. I feel... Connected. More oddly, I appreciate and desire this feeling, new as it seems. Most oddly of all, he allows me the same privilege, and is even grateful that I take it, cold green eyes carving into him in turn.

His eyes are rough, but his gaze is gentle.


	2. Chapter 2

His edges are rough – uncouth, loud, brash, often impatient, quick to offense and to offer violence. Yet, it's never with the intent to harm, not really. Even in these fights he picks among his chosen people. I don't understand that, violence without hurt. He only grins and tells me that sometimes a little scuffle is just how friends understand each other. Reluctantly I agree he may have a point, since it was during a fight we came to understand each other. Even his insults and informality somehow put people at ease with him. I find I am not unaffected. Does that mean we are friends, he and I?

His edges are rough, but his intentions are gentle.


	3. Chapter 3

His emotions are rough – volatile, mercurial, explosive. Irrepressible. Overwhelming, for himself, and for those he unleashes them on. They are more formidable a weapon than any Jutsu. They push at you until you yield, and pull at you until your feet find the path. Having been on the receiving end of that torrent once it is easy to recognize the futility of his next target's resistance. There is not one he set out to sway who did not eventually surrender to the currents of his emotional maelstrom. There is not one who did not come out better somehow on the other side.

His emotions are rough, but his heart is gentle.


	4. Chapter 4

His story is rough – marked even from the start by pain, isolation, sacrifice. Losses great enough to have broken others along his path. Loneliness, fear, desperation, he has felt. Hate, ignorance, loathing, he has been shown. Rage and darkness that tried to swallow him. Where others faltered, he endured, not unbent, but unbroken; he grew stronger, he lead the way, held out hope and compassion. He transformed his suffering into others' salvation.

His story is rough, but his spirit is gentle.


	5. Chapter 5

His absence is rough – I can imagine nothing worse than this fate, and I am no stranger to horror or heartbreak. The slowing of his pulse, the fading of his light, instills a panic within me I'd never felt before. He could not leave me! I would not let him go! How could he hold on? We could help, if he would hold on. The silence is deafening when he is gone from my side, fate uncertain. Yet his reappearance is not heralded by trumpets, by signs from the heavens, by thronging, worshipful multitudes, as perhaps it ought to be. He is, after all, our Savior, come back to us from the cold grasp of the void. Unremarked but for a collective sigh of relief.

His absence is rough, but his return is gentle.


	6. Chapter 6

His victory is rough – hard won, at times seeming impossible, yet he pulled it off in the end. While we slumbered, dreaming the peaceful, deceitful dreams of a world not our own, he fought for us, and fought for us, and fought for us. Each foe more terrible, in their own way, than the last. He died for us, bled for us, cried for us, lived for us. He gave of his spirit and heart and will and body for us, without question. Without hesitation. When it's over he is scarred, but against all odds, thankfully, beautifully, perfectly, smiling. For us.

His victory is rough...


	7. Chapter 7

His tears are rough – jagged, almost silent sobbing. He keeps it to himself, hiding his pain. Hoarding it now, it turns back on him and multiplies. On the outside he is focused. Healing others, offering comfort, sharing sorrows, shouldering burdens. I wonder that no one else seems to see it. No one offers him the same solace they seek. Should I? Can I? Am I able? Would he even accept or want such from me? When I stop him, when I pull him to me and tell him 'be still and grieve, be still and find your own peace' he crumbles. As if he'd been waiting for permission, to feel for himself. His arms wrap around me so tightly, his breathing ragged, his entire body shaking. I lead him away from the startled passersby. He follows meekly for once, and he weeps. There are no words. I'm not sure if I'm doing this right, I've never attempted to give of myself in quite this way before. When he falls asleep against me his face softens, smooths. He looks so innocent, so untouched by the hurt that haunts his wakeful hours.

His tears are rough, but his rest is gentle.


	8. Chapter 8

His presence is rough – an invasion; he takes over my thoughts, my dreams. He is both elusive and ever-present. I don't know when it started. I care less and less, fight against it less and less. I want more of him. His warmth, his joy, his teasing, his infuriating and nerve-wracking penchant for trouble. His vulnerability, his need. The part of him he shared with me, alone. Am I... special, to him? It is increasingly clear that he is special to me. I know it would not be well looked upon by many, especially in my own rigidly traditional Village, if it became known. My regard for him is well beyond friendly now. I wish to tell him, regardless of the consequences. I wish him to know how I feel; but when the opportunity presents itself, the words stick in my throat. My heart thunders. My implacable nerves fail me. I look to him, helplessly, frozen, and once more his eyes sunder me. He pulls from me my truth, exposing it to his gaze. In there, I find my heart's confessions reflected back to me, his own truth made known.

His presence is rough, but his acceptance is gentle.


	9. Chapter 9

His lips are rough – chapped and unpracticed. His hands are rougher, calloused and scarred by a life of usefulness. I beg for the mercy of them on me. I return the favor, eagerly, every inch of him bare to me; the exploration of fingers, teeth, tongue, desperation, desire. It flows between us, back and forth. It grows with each passing, consuming us. It might have frightened me if I didn't need it so much, if I weren't so pleased and fascinated by how much he seemed to need it, too. But the kisses are best. The kisses are so much more, as we are surrounding each other, inside of each other, merging one to another without end. Always we come back together with the kissing, the give and take of our bodies changing and changing again, but our lips always in harmony, always the same.

His lips are rough, but I suppose mine are, too.


	10. Chapter 10

His voice is rough – breaking with emotion. His face is so open, his eyes so filled with warmth, with hope, with adoration. It steals my breath, even now, even after all this time. Ten years of life together. How did it happen so quickly? I look around, our family and friends there for support as he finally takes this last step. His ultimate dream. No matter how many times he's told me that I am his dream. I know how much he cares for me, needs me, I don't doubt his words; but it's not the same kind of dream, and he knows I understand. His eyes find their way out to gaze at his Village again as the hat is placed on his head. His eyes are still filled with warmth, with hope, and with devotion, looking at them; but the full weight of his tenderness and passion are expressed only to and with me. Somehow I am the luckiest man alive.

His voice is rough, but his love is gentle.

And he... He is everything.


End file.
